


We'll Take a Cup o’ Kindness Yet

by poetrymafia



Category: Rose Under Fire - Elizabeth Wein
Genre: Edinburgh, F/F, First Kiss, Post-World War II, Scotland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 01:35:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4121416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetrymafia/pseuds/poetrymafia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose Justice and Róża Czajkowska are ready to celebrate the New Year in Edinburgh. But some confessions will have to be made first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Take a Cup o’ Kindness Yet

Róża Czajkowska was the worst, with her caramel curls, her pouting lips and flashing eyes. Here I was, struck dumb in the middle of the street, staring at the girl in the grey beret as she in turn stoically observed a marionette in a shop window.

“Rose, do you think if you put strings on my joints like this,” she raised one leg and crooked both arms; “you could make me dance like a ballerina?”

Her tone was light but I wasn’t amused. The deformity of her legs - caused by her torture in Ravensbruck - kept her hobbled, even after multiple surgeries to correct it. There really wasn’t anything they could do for her anymore. I didn’t want to think about it.

I pulled my plaid coat closer as a gust of wind sped down the walk. “Róża, we have four hours before the new year. That’s plenty of time to go home before Hogmanay fireworks start…” I considered a moment. It hardly seemed worth it to go all the way back to our little flat, then come all the way back downtown for the displays at midnight.

“I need coffee,” Róża replied, shivering as the wind drove us closer to the windowpane. She gave one last enigmatic look to the wooden puppet on display before snorting and turning away.

“D’you think Harry’s is open?” I walked quickly down the street, Róża lengthening her stride as much as she could to keep up.

“I doubt it; on a holiday night.” Róża stuffed her hands deep inside her coat pockets. “But maybe Martin’s is open. Dundee?”

I laughed. We sounded to me like a couple of familiar Scots discussing shops. Except Róża had her Polish accent and I had my American one, and when we were alone we spoke in a mixture of predominantly French, with a little English, and the occasional German and Polish words when we couldn’t remember any others. A fine pair of Scots, indeed.

Especially since, if I was correct about our location, we were nowhere near either Harry’s or Martin’s.

 

We took a left at the next street, hurrying past a crowd of shivering lads who looked like they’d just left a pub themselves.

“Róża look!” I stopped and stared. As if we had summoned it by wishing, a tavern was lit up less than a block away. “ _Milnes_ , it says. Maybe they have coffee and we can get a caffé crema.”

Róża wasn’t paying attention. “What street is this?” she muttered. “I only ever remember Princes and Queens.” Then she burst out laughing. “Rose! Look!”

I turned to follow her gaze to the nearby street sign. Rose Street. We were on Rose Street. My mouth fell open.

“All this time in Edinburgh and we hadn’t discovered Rose Street!” Róża bent nearly double with laughter. Her curly hair cascaded from under her little cap and flowed over her face like a golden river.

“Well,” I breathed, suddenly feeling weak in the knees. “I think I might need something stronger than coffee, now we’re here.” Róża momentarily took her mittened hand out of her pocket to give my arm a hard slap. “Behave, Rose Justice. It isn’t even nine o’ clock.”

 

We staggered gratefully into the warm tavern, stripping off our mittens and scarves and gasping as the blood warmed in our noses and fingers.

There were a couple small groups clustered near the bar, mostly comprised of stocky, mustachioed men smelling of tobacco and fish, with three or four worn-looking women who looked overjoyed to have a holiday. Nearly everyone was talking at once, punctuating their sentences with raucous and expressive waving of beer glasses.

Róża, ever purposeful, strode to the bar and asked for a “white coffee.”

“The lass means espresso and milk,” I added, dropping my coat onto a chair beside her. “Steamed, if you please.” The man at the bar looked at me suspiciously. I realized that, almost unconsciously, I’d tried to add a Scottish lilt to my voice. As usual I’d gone overboard and ended up sounding more posh than Edinburghian. “Bollocks,” I tried under my breath. That didn’t sound any better. Róża gave a slight snort and slapped her hands over her mouth, but I could see her eyes sparkling below her cap. Róża Czajkowska was the worst, and suddenly I wanted to pull her very close and press my lips to those shiny pink cheeks.

But instead I just slapped her arm with my mittens. “Róża, what are we going to do while we wait for the fireballs and fireworks to start?”

“Eat shortbread,” Róża said pragmatically, glancing over a menu. “That is what Scots do over New Year’s, correct?”

“I think so.” I smiled gratefully at the glowering barman as he took a moment away from his small crowd of patrons to push two coffees in our general direction.

“But we have hours before midnight.” I sipped the hot liquid gingerly. “I wish we knew someone who was having a party in town.”

Róża stirred her drink and shrugged, her curls just brushing her shoulders. “We don’t need someone else to have a party.”

I snorted and took another burning sip.

Róża just kept stirring and stirring. After a few minutes of eavesdropping on the Edinburgh crowd (who were mostly talking about some bloke named Gavin’s plan for fireballs in an hour), I turned back to her. “Should we walk again for a bit? I bet we can still find a shop with penny bangers. Or buy them off a lad in the street.”

Róża was a little too focused on her coffee. I thought perhaps she was on the verge of something important. When she finally spoke, she sounded more bitter than my coffee. “You can cut off dead weight at anytime, Rose. Isn’t that true?”

I looked blankly into my coffee cup. “In flight? Yes, as long as you do before you hit the ground.”

Róża hardly let me finish before she was talking again. “It’s such a pity you couldn’t find someone else to join you on New Years Eve. Isn’t it a custom to give a New Years kiss? But you still have three hours; you could find someone.”

“What are you talking about?” I finally swiveled on my bar stool so I could face her straight on.

“We might be together in Scotland but it’s all just temporary,” Róża said, a note of desperation in her voice. “You go so much faster; I hold you back. You don’t want to be here anyway; you could be at any school while I have to stay in this program for Polish-speakers. How could I learn to be a doctor, in English, at your fancy Ivy schools, or…”

“Róża,” I interrupted with a gasp, “every moment in Scotland with you has been heaven.”

Róża folded her arms and looked at me uncertainly.

“It’s true! Watching the bonfires with you on summer nights… The times you almost fell in a canal because you wouldn’t stop waving your arms while we were talking…”

Róża scoffed at the memory. “I had to make a point, Rose.”

“Remember when we went to the Empire Theater,” I pressed on, “and we had to leave early because you thought you were going to be sick? That was one of the best moments of my life.”

“Not mine!” Róża cringed at the memory.

“You… grabbed my arm,” I said, suddenly feeling shy again, “and you held on to me while we waited for Charlie to bring his old car around and drive us home. Mollie was so cross that we left early.” That made Róża smile. I wasn’t sure that I was explaining myself well, however.

“I was going to tell you over dinner at the Csarda next month, Róża. I didn’t mean to do it on New Year’s Eve.”

I swallowed hard. Róża’s amber eyes were piercing under that grey beret, challenging me to tell her the truth. Róża didn’t have patience for my being “głupi,” by which I think she meant something like pusillanimous. At any rate, there was no way out but through.

“You’ve kept me together and I want to stay with you forever.”

“You sound like a poet,” Róża said absently, still staring at me.

“I mean it, Róża.” Now I heard desperation in my voice. “I…”

Róża leaned towards me and stopped my mouth with hers.

 

She was warm and soft and solid and I could hear her heart beating. My own heart was pounding in my ears. She slipped a cool hand up to my cheek and pressed her lips harder against mine until they parted. This feeling was more heady than any alcohol could give me. I felt hot and dizzy and I never wanted it to end.

 

But after what seemed hardly any time at all, Róża pulled back and cleared her throat. “I am the worst,” she said apologetically, grabbing her scarf and mittens. 

“No, you’re not,” I said defensively. “You’re amazing.” I dropped some change on the counter and followed her out into the night.

The sudden shift from the cozy tavern to the dark windy street made me shudder deep into my bones.

“Róża,” I said suddenly, “I want to go home.”

Róża glanced at me uncertainly. “Does it make sense to go home before the fireworks…”

I shook my head. “I don’t care about the fireworks. Not unless you do. I just… I think we have a lot to talk about.” I bit my lip. “Before the new year arrives.”

Róża laughed suddenly, a clear, ringing sound. “If you hold my hand,” she said rakishly, holding it out to me, “then yes, I’ll go home with you.”

I took her mitten tightly in mine and felt a whole different kind of fireworks explode.

**Author's Note:**

> We two have run about the slopes,  
> and picked the daisies fine;  
> But we’ve wandered many a weary foot,  
> since auld lang syne.  
> And there’s a hand my trusty friend,  
> And give me a hand o’ thine:  
> And we’ll take a right good-will draught,  
> for auld lang syne.  
> \- Robert Burns


End file.
